


We Happy Few

by Polexia_Aphrodite



Series: Gone for Soldiers [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Feels, Multi, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, these three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polexia_Aphrodite/pseuds/Polexia_Aphrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky spends hours, days, trying not to remember what they meant to him, Natalia and Steve. In the few moments they’ve spent together, usually in briefings or debriefings, or in the heat of battle, he can tell something has happened between them. He wishes he could be happy for them, because he wants so badly for them to be happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Happy Few

**Author's Note:**

> This leg of the story overlaps timeline-wise with the previous two parts. About a quarter of the way through, at the mention of Bucky living with Steve, that’s the end of Gone for Soldiers. The events following the reference to London about halfway through take place after Where the Clouds Never Go Away.
> 
> Hope you like it.

When she sees James Barnes for the first time under the bright lights in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interrogation room, he calls her “Natalia.” Just like the old days. 

Just days earlier, Fury had sent her out with Steve, and Barnes spent three days tracking them. Three days deciding how best to kill them. He finally made his move once they were back in New York, which was his first mistake. Steve and Natasha called for backup and, after twelve hours of tearing apart Lower Manhattan, he failed, landing in a prison cell at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters.

Fury sends Natasha into the interrogation room to do what she does best: get answers, this time from the Winter Soldier. James gives her nothing, just swears at her in Russian and calls her a traitor.

His skin is clammy and pale. His eyes sunken and dark. Even though he’s still covered in the filth of their last battle, even though his mind is sick, the sight of him is still enough to fill Natasha with an unbearable longing.

For all the memories the Red Room took from her, they didn’t take everything. She remembers what it meant to be held by him, how it felt when he kissed her, how she trembled when he told her he loved her.

He sneers at her when he picks up on it. She’s always been terrible at hiding herself from him.

“Never liked you,” he spits.

She smiles wanly. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Memory’s no good,” he looks her straight in the eye, “Not mine, not yours.”

He refuses to talk to her after that, and she refuses to force him to, no matter what Fury orders. Even the thought of trying makes her feel broken inside. When Steve opens his arms to her, when she lets him in (too far), it’s the only thing that makes her feel whole.

*

When S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psychiatrists finally break through, when they finally puncture and tear apart the thick membrane of amnesia the Red Room left him with, they call Natasha first.

She finds James in his cell, the restraints finally off. He sits on the edge of his cot, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the wall ahead of him. He doesn’t even look up when she sits next to him, her hip grazing his.

“What do you remember?” Her voice is quiet. All she can see is his profile, his dark hair falling in a lank curtain across his cheek.

He shrugs, swallows, looks down at the floor.

“Everything, maybe. I remember you. I remember how…how things used to be.”

She nods, trying to keep her face unreadable. He isn’t looking at her, but she knows that on the other side of the two-way mirror overlooking his cell, none of this will go unobserved.

“I remember,” he goes on, his voice hoarse, “I remember Steve. He’s here, isn’t he? He came—I think he came here, once.”

He turns to her then, his dark eyes wide, imploring and open. It’s a look she hasn’t seen from him since the old days, when they fought and loved and lived for each other.

Natasha nods again, because no words can make it past the lump in her throat.

James jerks towards her and takes her face in his hands, his fingers – real and metallic – pushing into her hair. The sensation makes her shudder and lean into him in spite of herself. “Where did you go, when I lost you?” he asks, his voice small and strangled.

Natasha swallows hard and sets her jaw. Her eyes aren’t filling with tears. They aren’t.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. got me. Deprogrammed me. Got me out and wouldn’t let me look back.”

He nods; his gaze, hard and distant, drifts somewhere over her shoulder.

She listens to him breathe for a moment. His hands drift down to the sides of her neck and an ominous feeling prickles up her spine.

“James?”

His eyes snap back to hers and his face softens. His head dips and his lips press against her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. When his mouth presses fully against hers, she doesn’t stop him, but she doesn’t let herself melt against him, even if a part of her wants to.

He senses her hesitation and pulls away, keeping his face inches away from hers. 

“Everything’s so mixed up.”

She sighs and wraps her arms around his shoulders. She doesn’t care who sees.

“I know.”

*

Steve visits him the next day. 

“Bucky?” he ventures, as he steps into the cell.

Bucky stands and looks straight at him. There must be something like recognition in his eyes, because Steve crosses the room in an instant, and suddenly his arms are around him.

It knocks the wind out of him. It was one thing to be embraced by Natasha, who had been part of his life after the fall, who had loved the Winter Soldier, but Steve belongs to Bucky Barnes, someone he only just remembered existed.

It feels wrong, the feeling of Steve’s arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head. It feels like he’s stepped into a life that’s too good for him, a life that was taken away from him for a reason.

When Steve pulls back, holding him by the shoulders, his eyes are red, but dry. 

He stays for an hour, until another migraine hits and Bucky has to lie down. The last thing he remembers before his vision blurs out is Steve above him, pressing a cool washcloth to his forehead, one warm hand folded in his. Steve bends over him, his breath hot by his ear. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Thank you for coming back.”

His tone is heavy and thick, like he’s on the verge of tears. But Bucky knows that wouldn’t happen. He’s seen Steve Rogers get beat up, get orphaned, get knocked down a million times. He’s never once seen him cry.

*

Steve moves him into his apartment in Brooklyn, and Bucky can’t remember a time when he lived in such a nice place, with gleaming hardwood floors and a big kitchen and a huge bed with clean sheets.

It takes getting used to, for both of them. Steve’s as fastidious as Bucky remembers (now) and he’s too used to living in the cramped and crowded Moscow _kommunalka_ where he spent his unfrozen years.

Bucky keeps waking up with Steve warm over him, his big hands on either side of his face, his worried eyes, dark in the dim light, fixed on his. He doesn’t remember the nightmares, like always, but waking up with Steve close sure as hell beats waking up sweaty and scared and alone in his cell.

The way Steve says his name, the way he pushes his hair, damp with sweat, off of his forehead makes his heart jump. Bucky tries not to think about how good it makes him feel, because Steve isn’t like that, isn’t like _him_.

Bucky spends hours, days, trying not to remember what they meant to him, Natalia and Steve. In the few moments they’ve spent together, usually in briefings or debriefings, or in the heat of battle, he can tell something has happened between them. He wishes he could be happy for them, because he wants so badly for them to be happy. 

*

Steve may be a lot more modern than he was when he first woke up, but he’ll still never let Natasha see him cry. He knows she won’t think less of him, but he holds it back anyway. When it gets to be too much, when Bucky’s unintelligible mumblings and blank stares overwhelm him, when the torn up victims and unrelenting enemies push him over the edge, he hides himself from her. He lets himself let go, lets choked, tearless sobs rip through his chest in the relative privacy of empty S.H.I.E.L.D. storage closets or his locked bedroom or abandoned alleyways. 

With Bucky in his apartment, they take up the habit of lunchtime assignations at Natasha’s loft. It’s after the team defeats the latest in an increasingly long line of potentially earth-ending enemies, after Bucky, Tony, and Thor head out for a celebratory beer, when they find themselves at Steve’s instead. 

They don’t bother showering, just peel off what’s left of their uniforms and wrap themselves around each other, still covered in dried sweat and the grime of battle.  
He backs her up and pins her against a wall, two hands on her hips lifting her until her legs lock around his waist and she sinks down onto his hard length. He sighs against her neck. When he’s with her, really with her, it’s easier to forget about the pain and panic that chase him.

He rocks against her, slow at first, then faster, until her hips are pounding against the wall at her back. She clutches him against her, squeezing him with her arms and thighs. She’s spent the afternoon watching him nearly get killed a dozen times and just the thought of losing him makes her feel wild and desperate. Blood from a now-healed wound is still caked along the side of his face, matting his hair. When she kisses him, he tastes like copper.

His hips snap against hers, the quiet, empty room filled with their soft gasps and the wet, sucking sound of their bodies joining together. He brings a hand between their bodies, his other arm wrapped around her, holding her up. His fingers strum her clit and she feels every nerve in her body tighten.

“Don’t go. Don’t go,” she sobs against his shoulder, her voice ragged and strung out, “ _Don’t leave me_.”

Her vision swims as her climax rushes over her, and she dimly registers the hoarse shout he gives as he comes, too. In the wake of it, panting and dirty and sweaty, his knees buckle and he leans them against the wall for support.

When she looks at him, his eyes are red-rimmed and bleary. She brings a hand up to his cheek and her fingers come away wet and red, the dried blood there loosened by tears. 

He doesn’t say anything, just slides out of her, sets her down, and pulls her into the bathroom. He turns on the water, barely waiting for it to warm up before he pushes her in and follows close behind. He puts his head under the hot spray, scrubbing at his face until it’s red and clean and definitely not tear-stained.

When he turns back to her, he wraps his arms around her waist. 

“Never gonna leave you,” he says against the side of her neck, “ _Never_. Never. ‘M gonna make you sick of me.”

She smiles, her fingers tracing the muscles in his shoulders. 

“Take me to bed.”

He leans back and grins, and makes quick work of washing them both down. In ten minutes, he has her in his bed, under him, her hands in his hair as he works his way down her body. She smells like soap and shampoo and Natasha. 

As he settles between her thighs, pressing a kiss to soft flesh on the inside of one knee, he sighs gratefully. He loves her like this: laid out, laid open, stripped down and ready for him. He shifts forward, his tongue pressing flat against her clit, and she shudders. For all that they’re soldiers, warriors, and spies, with his mouth between her legs, they’re only human.

Afterwards, Steve pulls her against him, fitting her against his side, her cheek pressed into his chest.

He laughs suddenly, his chest shaking underneath her head, “How do you always know what I need?”

The words bubble up in her throat with such force, she nearly says them: _Because I love you_.

Her stomach drops. It isn’t good. It’s very bad. Because it’s completely true. 

“Natasha?”

She looks up at him and Steve sees it in her eyes: the cagey, defensive look she gets when he gets too close. It turns his stomach. They’ve been partners, been lovers, for so long now, and the strain of holding himself back, of worrying about what it would mean if he tipped his hand, wears him out. He decides, right then, that he won’t do it anymore.

He turns towards her, pulling her against him.

“I love you,” he whispers against the side of her neck. He moves over her, his thigh sliding between hers. 

She’s not an idiot; she’s seen the way he looks at her, and knows he’s been ready to say it for a long time. But to say it now, when she’s so overwhelmed by her own feelings, when she’s trying so hard to fight them down, is nearly more than she can handle.

Suddenly, her hands are trembling; her teeth are chattering, even though he’s warm over her. “Steve—“ she gets out, but he shakes his head and covers her mouth with his. She kisses him back frantically, her fingers in his hair, her legs wrapping around his hips, and she hopes it says everything she can’t.

*

Bucky never sees Natalia at the apartment, but there are signs of her everywhere: the scent of her perfume in Steve’s bedroom, a tampon wrapper in the bathroom garbage can, a lipstick ring on a dirty coffee cup in the sink.

It’s a sleepless night when Bucky finally spots her, and even then, it’s not something he’s supposed to see. He’s treading quietly down the hall towards the kitchen, in search of something to distract himself from his wakefulness, when he hears them in Steve’s bedroom. 

Steve leaves his door cracked open to listen for Bucky’s nightmares and through the gap, Bucky can see them: their naked bodies illuminated in yellow street-light as it filters through his curtains. Natalia’s arms, slender but strong, are curled around his bare back, her legs bent up around his waist. Steve moves above her, pushing into her in a deep stroke that makes her head tilt back and her mouth fall open, her red hair spread across Steve’s pillow. Steve lowers his mouth to her exposed neck and she curls around him tighter. They are nearly silent, just panting together quietly. 

Bucky watches them for a while, the two people he has loved (wanted, needed) most, who found each other without him. He has never felt so alone.

The first time it happened, it’s easy to explain away. He hadn’t meant to see them, hadn’t even known Natalia was there. The second time is harder to justify.

He doesn’t know why he does it – why he walks silently down Steve’s hallway again after jerking awake, a silent cry strangled in his throat. He usually doesn’t remember his nightmares, he usually wakes up blank, gasping, and tearing at the sheets. But he remembers these ones, if only because they’re new. 

He dreams about the helpless, desperate calls of the dying at Azzano, where he thought for the first time that he’d never see Steve again. He dreams about waking up on an operating table with Steve over him, babbling what he hopes is his name, rank, and serial number. He dreams about running through a forest in the rain, following Steve, his dog tags scraping against his chest as fiery explosions rock the earth under him. He dreams about falling. When he finally wakes up, he knows that these nightmares are even worse because they aren’t nightmares at all – they’re memories.

Through the crack in the door, he sees Steve on the bed, sitting back on his heels, his back facing him. Natalia straddles his lap, her arms around his shoulders as she rocks up and down. Steve moans softly against her chest, and the sound rips through Bucky. All at once, he wants _him_ , he wants _her_ , he wants to take comfort in both of them, like he used to.

The floorboard beneath his foot creaks and Natalia looks up, over Steve’s shoulder. She meets his eyes and even though the look she gives him is tender and understanding, he feels a wave of shame wash over him. He has no right to be there, no right to stand there, hard and wanting and filled with love. Not when he’s been who he’s been. Not when he’s done what he’s done.

She pauses just long enough for Steve to notice something amiss, and he looks up, follows her gaze, and looks back. Bucky just barely hears Steve say his name, then he’s gone, back down the hall, back in his room, tearing at his hair.

He hopes Steve won’t follow him, and he doesn’t. Through the antiquated, paper-thin walls, he can hear Natalia talking, but can’t make out her words.

When he ventures back out in the morning, far too early for even Steve to be awake, he sees them one more time, fast asleep and wrapped around each other, her head on his shoulder. Bucky ignores the hard pit in his stomach and turns into the bathroom. 

*

Natasha sees the way Bucky looks at him. She sees his longing, his self-loathing and denial. She sees the way Steve is around him: hesitant, reticent, unsure.

At the Red Room, James had a widely-known reputation as a sexual omnivore, and she starts to wonder how much of that was part of the Winter Soldier, and how much came from Bucky Barnes. She thinks about what Steve has told him already: what Bucky meant to him, the life they shared. She wonders how far it went.

*

Fury sends Bucky to Kiev with Natasha, and working with her again, one-on-one like the old days, makes something inside him heal over.

She finds him in their hotel bar one night, cradling a lowball glass of whisky between his hands.

He gives her a brusque nod as she sits next to him and orders.

“Tell me about you and Steve.”

He looks over at her.

“What do you mean?”

She raises her eyebrows expectantly and he sighs and shrugs his shoulders. The gesture is so familiar, so like something that Steve would do, and in an instant she’s reminded of how much she’s missed him since they’ve been in the field.

“He’s a good guy,” he starts, “We grew up together. Like brothers.” He looks at his hands.

“Brothers?” her voice is soft and sympathetic. She knows it’s more.

He scowls and points a finger at her. “Don’t you try any of that Black Widow bullshit on me, Romanoff,” he jerks his thumb back towards himself, “I am an impenetrable fortress. No way you’re getting in here.”

She smirks and his bravado falters for a moment. It’s laughably untrue.

They sit together for a while longer, until the bar is empty and they’re the only ones still downing drinks. They talk about the old days, the old fights. When they stumble up to their rooms, when he tries to follow her in to hers, she marches him down the hall to his door.

“Worth a shot,” he tells her, flashing a lopsided grin and pulling out his room key. 

She lets him kiss her cheek goodnight before she shoves him inside and pulls the door shut.

*

After Steve and Natasha get back from London and Bucky gets back from Kiev, Fury sends Natasha out into the field for a month, and Steve focuses all his efforts on Bucky.

His nightmares just get worse, until he’s jolting wake every night. After a few nights of being woken up by his incoherent shouts and rushing in to shake him awake, Steve, rather unceremoniously, moves in. 

It’s the fifth night when Bucky shouts himself awake, panting and sweaty, with Steve by his side. It’s the fifth night when Steve slides under the covers next to him.

Steve hasn’t forgotten about how Bucky used to crawl into his bed when he was sick or beat up or cold, and what it meant to feel the warm press of him, stable and safe. And, he realizes, maybe that’s why it means something when Natasha does it, too.

He tries not to think too much about the times that came before, though, in their tiny, tenement apartment in Brooklyn. When the nights were cold, or when he woke himself up wheezing uncontrollably, when Bucky would slide under the covers next to him, one hand spread warm across his chest. There were only a couple of times when things got confusing, when they woke up tangled up in the sheets and each other. Times when Steve’s chest ached to see Bucky, sleeping and peaceful and warm next to him.

Steve wonders idly if Bucky remembers what that felt like. He’d never felt that way about anyone else, until Peggy.

He spreads his hand across Bucky’s still-heaving chest.

“Breathe,” he commands, just like Bucky used to during his asthma attacks. When Bucky looks over at him, his face barely visible in the dark, Steve smiles; Bucky’s heart stops. Steve can’t know what he’s doing; can’t know the effect he’s having. But maybe he can.

After a while, Bucky’s breathing slows. Steve’s been still for so long, he’s sure he’s fallen asleep. But then he shifts, his hand sliding down into Bucky’s.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, and Bucky has to strain to hear him, “When you fell. I thought—“

“I’m here now,” Bucky interrupts, “No sense regretting anything.”

Steve brings his other hand, the hand that isn’t tangled up in Bucky’s fingers, up to the side of his face. 

“You going to stick around this time?” he asks. His tone is casual, but his thumb strokes the stubble on his cheek. Bucky nods and clenches his jaw against the urge to move closer.

They fall asleep with Bucky’s hand still folded in Steve’s. 

*

It happens again. And again and again. Bucky starts to get used to falling asleep with Steve, gets used to knowing that no matter what bureaucratic nonsense S.H.I.E.L.D. throws at them, at the end of the day he’ll have pizza and cold beer with Steve. At the end of the day he’ll get to fall asleep beside him.

Whenever Steve thinks about it, whenever he _lets_ himself think about it, something in his chest clenches. He can’t help feeling guilty, because he’s the one who lets Captain America get tied to his bedposts by the Black Widow and fall asleep on the Winter Soldier’s shoulder. And, of course, there’s the other thing.

Steve knew of guys who didn’t like girls, back in school, back in the service, but he knows this isn’t that. He loves Natasha, loves her body, loves what they do together. This is something else. He wonders if it’s possible to just love people. He wonders if sometimes it doesn’t matter what type of body someone is in.

On the morning Natasha comes back, Bucky hears the front door click open and suddenly he’s wide-awake. But the gentle padding of feet, the almost silent shuffling, tells him that it’s her. He lets himself feel surprised for a moment, not that Steve gave her a key, but that she accepted it. Beside him, Steve snores softly, turning his face into Bucky’s shoulder.

It seems like a long time before she finally finds her way into his bedroom. When she sees Bucky, she smirks, one eyebrow lifting, and he looks back at her defiantly. A part of this might be hers, but it’s his, too. Steve sleeps on, and Bucky can’t help thinking what a terrible spy he’d make, sleeping with both eyes so firmly closed.

Natasha shrugs out of her jacket and shirt; she steps out of her shoes and jeans, leaving everything in a pile on the floor. When she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra, sending it, too, to the floor, the sight of her sends a rush of blood to his groin. Natasha rolls her eyes at the hungry look he gives her.

She leaves her underwear on – plain, white, and cotton – and saunters to Steve’s side of the bed. Bucky remembers how she hates lingerie, how she only ever wears it for missions when she thinks it’s what her mark wants. He remembers how practical she is, how straightforward and unaffected. 

Natasha slides into bed behind Steve, her arms wrapping around the gentle slope of his waist, pulling her body tight against his. Steve murmurs something into Bucky’s shoulder, then jerks awake, his hand covering Natasha’s where it sits on his stomach. Bucky looks at him, but Steve can’t seem to meet his eyes.

“Nat—“ he starts, but she slides her body up along his and puts her chin on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. She slides her hand out from under his, lifting her fingers to trace Bucky’s collarbone. She presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder and shifts again, her head on his pillow. “We’re all here, now.”

*

Steve usually sleeps between them, his head on Bucky’s shoulder with Natasha’s arm slung around his waist. For a long week, they live in this delicate balance: touching, but being careful not to touch too much. Feeling, but not too much. 

Natasha sees everything they’re doing: sees how they pretend that Bucky’s only there because Steve forced him to move in, that Steve’s only there to chase away Bucky’s nightmares, and that Natasha’s only there because of Steve. They pretend that none of this has anything to do with what any of them wants.

In the end, it’s Natasha who orchestrates it, because she sees that the three of them need some managing, and, frankly, all their furtive looks and repressed desires and half-spoken apologies make her want to shoot something.

She crawls between them one night after the lights have gone out, which is already a break from what has become their normal position. Even with Bucky there, she sleeps nearly-naked, completely aware of the effect it has on both of them.

She slides her body next to Steve’s, with Bucky at her back. She glances back at him, granting him permission without saying a word.

She kisses Steve, long and slow and thorough. Through half-lidded eyes, he can see Bucky behind her, his mouth moving along the nape of her neck, her shoulders, his hand tracing her side. He hesitates for a moment. Part of him thinks he should leave them alone, because he would give them anything and maybe what they want is to be together. But Natasha’s hand is curled around the back of his neck and Bucky shifts closer to her, pressing them all closer together. He slides his real arm around Natasha’s waist, brushing Steve’s bare stomach. The drag of Bucky’s skin against his, coupled with the hot, wet press of Natasha’s tongue along the tendons in his neck, makes him shudder, makes a jolt of electricity shoot straight to his groin.

Natasha pulls back, looks him square in the eye, and it tells him everything. _This is good_ she says. _This isn’t wrong_.

She lowers her eyes and her hand, sliding her fingers into the waistband of his boxers. She looks up at him again, and behind her he can see Bucky looking at him, too. They’re saying the same thing: _Let’s have this, all together_.

It shocks him how much he wants it. How much he wants to be that close to both of them.

Giving in to them feels like coming home.

*

When he wakes up, the angle of the shadows across the bed tell him it must be nearly noon. Bucky’s gone, but a hand on the still-warm depression in the mattress next to him tells him that he hasn’t been gone long. He can hear the shower running down the hall.

As usual, Natasha has woken up before him, and she’s sitting up next to him, leaning against the headboard, the _New York Times_ spread across her lap. The sight of her, still naked, her pale skin covered in love bites, red hair tangled and falling loose around her shoulders, would turn him on if he weren’t already so wrung out.

“That was something, last night,” he says, blushing a little.

She looks over at him, surprised that he’s awake, and smiles. “It was,” she says, touching his cheek lightly. Considering all the things she’s seen him do, including all the things he’s done just in the last few hours, it always surprises her that he still has blushes in him.

“It doesn’t change anything, does it? With us, I mean.” His fingers trace up and down her arm.

She shakes her head and moves her arm around him, her fingers stroking the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Bucky enters, dressed in boxers, with damp hair and full hands. He hands Natasha a plate of buttered toast and a mug of black tea, and brings his own mug up for a sip. Like Natasha, he’s covered in little purpled bruises and pink scratches. For all their soft feelings, they certainly weren’t gentle with each other.

He grins and holds his mug aloft. It’s the atrocity Tony gave him last Christmas - part of the unlicensed Avengers merchandise that’s so easy to find in every tacky gift shop in Times Square. It’s emblazoned with an image of Steve in full Captain America regalia, paired with a corny catchphrase invented on Madison Avenue. 

“It was a gift,” Steve grumbles, and next to him, Natasha laughs.

Bucky disappears for a moment and comes back with a third mug, handing it to Steve and stretching out next to him. Steve breathes a sigh of relief when he discovers that it’s coffee instead of tea.

“Your usual,” Natasha deadpans, handing Bucky the comics. He snorts and rolls his eyes, reaching across Steve for the sports section. Natasha thumbs through the paper for a moment, then hands Steve the local news while she opens the international section across her lap.

After the night before, Steve knows they’re all going to need a real breakfast soon, and he silently waffles between the diner down the street and the restaurant around the block.

But for now, sitting in bed with Bucky and Natasha is quiet and domestic and just what he needs. He settles back against the pillows and sips his coffee, and, for a little while, everything is perfect.


End file.
